The Lost Garden

by Ang Li

  Mother continued in a worried tone:

  “Yes, indeed. Printing money is only part of it. Just look how he parades his smuggled items all the time. I’m afraid he’s going to get into trouble.” She paused and then added, “Could we get involved somehow?”

  “We’ve experienced the worst already. What are we afraid of now?” Father snorted.

  “It’s that not simple. Printing money is interfering with the country’s finances. It disrupts the social order and endangers national security. If the government takes it seriously, it could be really bad.” Mother sounded anxious.

  Father was quiet for a long time.

  After graduating from junior high, Yinghong was preoccupied with her senior high school entrance exam. By that time, all the newly planted flame trees in Lotus Garden were blooming, and Kozo stopping showing up. She could not avoid a vague concern that he must have gotten into trouble.

  Gone, also, was the old soldier from the Mainland whom the local Taiwanese called Old Taro, a man who had kept a lackluster watch over Lotus Garden. His place was taken by a shrewd-looking middle-aged Mainlander and a young Taiwanese man. The two of them kept a tight watch at the entrance to Lotus Garden. Father spent virtually every day inside, and even Mother, who had business to take care of, rarely went out. Yinghong was repeatedly told to come home directly from school.

  The watch lasted about three months. Then one day, Mudan opened the gate early in the morning and saw that Old Taro was sitting on one of the granite steps, his reappearance as sudden as his earlier disappearance.

  It would be years before Yinghong finally and truly understood what Kozo had done, and even then it was difficult to imagine someone like Kozo, a pantywaist, according to Mudan, being involved in that kind of business, particularly since he was so gutless that a loud noise made him jump out of his chair and thump his chest with his dainty fingers.

  But from the bits and pieces revealed by Mudan, Yinghong learned that Kozo had come from a wealthy family in Gongzhailiao, in the countryside outside Lucheng. He’d gone to school, but several acres of family land had been seized by the government after the implementation of the Land to the Tillers policy. Since he was no good at working the remaining plot of land, he had to find another way to make a living.

  She stopped painting for such a long time that she gradually forgot her dream of becoming a painter, either because she had cost Kozo millions of NT with her painting or because she had to prepare for exams.

  Now that Kozo no longer came to Lotus Garden to show Father the latest cameras and photography equipment, Father had to once again visit the store in Taichung. As he was always looking for something to do, it occurred to him to buy a car, since he had to make the trip so often.

  At the time there was only one automobile in Lucheng, a black sedan belonging to the town head. If members of wealthy families who had worked away from Lucheng over the years bought a car, they naturally kept it for use in the city, occasionally driving it back on home visits; hence the town head’s “Black Hood” was the only car Lucheng residents saw on a daily basis.

  Rumor had it that the town head had colluded with the KMT government when it relocated to Taiwan, which was how he could suddenly transform himself from a local hooligan into a rich man overnight and become the local representative before serving as the town head. With such a background in an old town with lost glory, he had earned no respect from the locals. Now that he had bought the Japanese “Black Hood”, it was pretty much settled that no self-respecting Lucheng family would follow his example and buy a second one. The established families were in the habit of competing with one another on who was better at “saving” money. With the motto that a single coin should be tied at four corners so it would not be spent too easily, they all believed that wasting money on superfluous objects was an act of the nouveau riche.

  “Lucheng has one major thoroughfare, Zhongzheng Road. It doesn’t take long to walk from one end to the other. Buying a car is truly the behavior of someone doomed to squander away the family fortune,” people said.

  Hence all eyes were on Father when he bought his car, particularly because he did not buy a Black Hood, one familiar to everyone in town. Instead, he bought a German car called a “Mercedes Benz,” unheard of by anyone.

  Finding “Mercedes Benz” too hard to say, the locals shortened it to Benz, which sounded more like Mens when pronounced in Japanese.

  The “Mens” was sold to Father by a consul who was returning home after serving his term in Taiwan. A uniformed chauffeur drove the car to Lucheng, drawing the attention of people along the way, forming a human wall that was said to be the equal of a parade of the deities. The crowd forced the chauffeur to slow down, and he arrived in Lotus Garden with some local ragamuffins’ hands on the car. They told Father they’d helped push it to his house, to which he responded with a pleasant smile and some tips.

  The 1953 Mercedes came in a cobalt blue, made before car designers had begun to worry about the wind factor, so it did not have an aerodynamic body. Instead, the car was all angles, with a rounded tail that was smooth and well textured, while the platinum logo on the hood displayed an extraordinarily luxurious elegance.

  The consul’s chauffer stayed on at Lotus Garden for more than two weeks, helping Father get reacquainted with driving a car. During those days, she often saw Father, accompanied by the driver, leave early in the morning to hone his driving skills, not returning till dusk. Unable to resist her request, he agreed to let her be his first passenger, but he also insisted that the chauffer do the driving. He wanted to wait, once the driver had left, to practice on his own for ten days or so before he’d let Yinghong and her mother ride with him.

  As they were driven around by the consul’s chauffer, Yinghong and Father, who were both sitting in the back, began to chat in Japanese, after Father explained to the young man, who didn’t know the language, that Japanese was their daily language at home.

  “When I was little, your grandfather drove a Japanese Black Hood, and he was actually the one who taught his chauffer how to drive. He was well mannered.”

  Father spoke slowly, but as always, when he talked about something important, his laconic eloquence showed how well read and knowledgeable he was. She listened quietly and carefully.

  “I remember when I was a child, the driver at our house didn’t wear a uniform, because your grandfather was a considerate man who didn’t want people to determine the driver’s status from his clothes. He often told us that ours was a large family that made no distinction between employer and the employee. This I learned in childhood, and, later, when I went to study in Japan, it played a significant role in my eventual decision to major in political science, instead of the more popular field of medicine.”

  Father paused before continuing:

  “Your grandfather did not allow me to be driven to and from my Japanese elementary and junior high schools because he did not want me to think I was different from the other kids. It didn’t bother me until one day, when an arrogant and aggressive Japanese classmate who had moved to Taipei returned to Lucheng for a visit. I didn’t want him to look down upon us Taiwanese, so I told the driver to take me to the train station to pick him up. Your grandfather gave me a severe tongue lashing after the classmate left.”

  Yinghong frowned as a sudden anxiety rose up in her, but she quickly relaxed her brows when she sensed it was not the right thing to do.

  “Young people are always full of pride. I remember that at the time I pretended to listen to your grandfather, but in fact I did not agree with him. So when other Japanese classmates came to visit, I made a deal with the driver for him to bring me to a street outside the Upper House and we’d walk home from there. The driver, who was fond of me, went along each time. I felt I’d gained enough prestige and the Japanese classmates would not dare look down upon me.”

  Father smiled at Yinghong as he talked.

  “The driver’s name was Ah-bing. He was in his forties. He was f
luent in Japanese, but your grandfather was strict about not using Japanese at home. Only Taiwanese was allowed. So we called him Ah-bing. Your grandfather had taught us early on that the Japanese were an alien race, invaders, and I never forget that.”

  Father turned to look out the window. Yinghong followed his gaze to see how the autumn scene near Lucheng, typical of central Taiwan, receded slowly as the car moved along. The rice had been harvested, and the field was blanketed by a riot of bright yellow flowers from newly planted rape. Row upon row of purple hemp ready for fiber extraction appeared quiet and peaceful under a bright autumn sun, interrupted only by tires going over a stone path that years later would be paved in asphalt.

  “The funny thing is, one day I realized that there were people who were not from an alien race, yet were more ruthless than the aliens, not invaders but more bloodthirsty than invaders. So I began to use the alien’s language to teach my own children.”

  Still with his gaze fixed out the window, he continued quietly without turning to look at her.

  After Father began driving, Old Taro, who guarded Lotus Garden, got a bicycle from God-knows-where and began to follow the Mercedes. Back then there were no stoplights in Lucheng, and people rarely paid attention when they crossed the street. As a result, Father drove slowly in town, and Old Taro was able to keep up for a while along Zhongshan Road.

  But once Father left town, he’d step down on the gas pedal, sending the powerful Mercedes flying down the road, and leaving Old Taro in his dust. Underestimating the power of the car, he actually pedaled to catch up as if his life depended on it. It only took a few minutes for the Mercedes to disappear into the distance, forcing him to give up the chase; he was panting hard but shook his head incredulously.

  That happened several times, until he was convinced that he’d never catch up with the Mercedes on his rickety bike. After that, he’d give chase in a lackluster fashion and follow along for a while, just for show, of course. When the Mercedes sped up, he kept at his own speed, and Father had no idea when he stopped following.

  Father never hired a driver, preferring to drive himself around and enjoy the scenery. When Yinghong passed the exam to enter the senior-high division of a top-tiered girl’s high school in the provincial capital, it was his daily duty to pick her up at school.

  A late riser, Father rarely got her to school in time for the morning study session at seven, so Yinghong caught a local train on her own. When school let out, she lined up with other students to leave the campus together, then walked off alone onto a main street by the school, where Father would be waiting for her.

  Even at home in Lotus Garden, Father maintained the habit of dressing up before leaving his bedroom. He was an even more meticulous dresser when he was leaving the house in his car. At the time, Western suit pants with suspenders were in vogue, and they became father’s usual attire, along with shirts from Hong Kong or Japan, a bow tie, wing-tip oxfords, his hair parted on the side and sleeked back with hair oil.

  For years, Father was known in Lucheng as a good-looking man, in addition to his reputation as a prodigal son. Behind his back, people used a slangy nickname, the Black Hound of the Zhu Family, as a way to separate him from other prodigal sons. He always looked elegant and refined, and never visited the red-light district or other unsavory businesses, which gained him some grudging respect from the townsfolk, who would not dare call him “Black Hound” to his face.

  But he never paid attention to any of this. No matter whether he went out for a ride or to pick up Yinghong, he usually chose a less-traveled route. When he got home to Lotus Garden, he drove into a newly built car park. He also washed and waxed the car himself.

  In the beginning, when he was gung-ho about washing the car, he was so meticulous that toothpicks and cotton swabs were his usual tools. The toothpicks were used to remove sand and dirt from crevices, while the cotton swabs were for a detailed polishing job. Back then not even hospitals in Taiwan used cotton swabs; instead they rolled wads of cotton on medical equipment. In order to care for his Mercedes, Father asked friends to bring him cotton swabs when they returned from abroad, as he’d used them when traveling overseas.

  Washing and polishing the car obviously helped Father kill a substantial amount of time. But like everything else, he soon lost interest in it and turned the chore over to Luohan, who was so fond of the vehicle that, whenever there was a wind and the weather turned cold, he’d run over to protect it with a canvas cover, as if afraid it might catch cold.

  However, Father kept up his custom of going out for a ride just about every day. He frequently drove to Taichung, where he would buy stereo equipment—his new hobby. His Mercedes served as perfect transport to bring the turntables and speakers back to Lotus Garden and back to Taichung for repair if there was a problem with the system. By the time Yinghong started senior high, Father would pepper his discussion with the stereo shop owner with references to loudspeakers from England’s Vitavox, or 300B amplifiers from W.E., all with a Japanese accent, of course. Buying stereo magazines from Japan and putting together a stereo system became a major task in his daily life.

  The stereo equipment volume could be turned up all the way in Lotus Garden with no concern for neighbors. Father taught Yinghong how to listen to music played on 78 and 33 1/3 speeds, to understand the simple installation step of putting a vacuum tube on the outside for ventilation, and to know all about the advanced setup of assembling the arms and turntable. She also learned to appreciate various composers, from Bach to Dvorak; Father’s favorite was “Pathétique” by Tchaikovsky.

  Father’s interpretation of classical music was heavily influenced by articles in the current music magazines; for instance, this is how he explained “Twilight of the Gods,” the last movement of Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung, to Yinghong:

  “As with the arrival of twilight, ripples of light flicker on the surface of the water. The strings, like a bleak winter scene, descend in gloomy darkness, symbolizing the frustration one experiences and the desolation of life.”

  Accompanied by classical music, particularly the soft, subtle movements of lingering, unending sorrow, or the echoes of regret after a resounding performance of strings and winds, the four seasons in Lotus Garden changed dramatically and affectively with the unspeakable anguish conveyed by Father’s interpretation.

  Cape lilacs were overtaken by a blanket of misty white flowers in the spring, like a lost cloud pausing at the green leaves; it was the kind of mysterious illusion that could only be embodied by a string of lithe, tinkling notes plucked by the nimble fingers of a harpist.

  In the summer, flowers on the flame trees were best represented by the powerful pounding of brass and string instruments, roaring and exploding with trees filled with red phoenixes ready to take wing. Amid the cacophony of the brass and strings, the fiery clouds vanished, leaving only the sadness of unfulfilled dreams. That was followed by tiny star fruit flowers in the fall; with the weeping and supplicating violin and the twisting and winding flute, the dots of red, like tears, flowed across the water in the garden, crossing the artificial hills and covered paths, and passing by the pavilions, terraces, and towers, year in and year out.

  The tiger claw trees did not shed all their leaves in the winter; some withered branches seemed to hold on to their last life force, with a suppressed gloom, as if they held no hope nor any future, like the moment before the thunderous musical movement comes to an end.

  With the sound of classical music flowing throughout Lotus Garden, Father continued to buy equipment for his stereo system. He soon had turntable sets from two different companies, three sets of speakers, and three amplifiers, which he considered to be the standard setup to mix and match for appreciating different types of music.

  By the time Yinghong graduated from high school and left for college in Japan, Japanese cameras had made successful inroads into the international market. Nikon was now as good as the best European camera, and Father began to collect a large numb
er of Japanese models.

  He no longer studied and examined cameras before selecting one; instead, he would look at the row of Japanese cameras on display and, pointing at those that struck his fancy, buy them all. His record purchase was six in one day.

  And he kept at his passion for cars as well. His second car was another Mercedes, which was then a new design with aerodynamic lines, though he was still partial to his 1953 model. When he went to Taichung on trips to purchase camera and stereo equipment, he always drove the old car, which was in pretty good shape.

  Then she graduated from college in Japan and Father insisted that she go directly to the United States for postgraduate work.

  If you were to return, I’m afraid I could not bear to let you leave again. I would prefer Ayako to be like me; with a Japanese and American education, you can maintain the foundation of Eastern cultural traditions while absorbing the modern spirit of Western civilization. This is the kind of basic education I would like you to have.

  When Ayako is studying overseas, you will naturally witness all sorts of novel and unusual sights and objects. Your letters often remind me of my ambitious plans when I left Taiwan as a youngster, seeing many wondrous and interesting things in these countries and feeling free and unfettered. I was brought to tears by these recollections; it is indeed true when people say it is hard to look back at the past.

  The ambition of my younger days died many years ago; what remains are depression and a meaningless life. Since you left, days seem to go by even more slowly in Lotus Garden. The abyss of despair truly feels like an endless descent into a bottomless pit, a feeling that has followed me like a shadow for decades. There is no end; no matter how far or how deep I fall, there is still no end to the descent.

  Ayako, you are still young, so you will not and should not understand the feelings of a useless man like me, confronted by the senselessness of a wasted life filled with despair. But Ayako, don’t worry too much; I am just …